


Two Selfish Martyrs

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (tim's canon typical), Anxiety, Depression, Discussions of Murder, Discussions of Suicide, M/M, Paranoia, Past Relationship(s), Trust Issues, and death in general, but they have love and care i promise, danny related trauma, implied/imagined threat, jon pov so canon typical, more info on tags in the notes, present different vibe of relationship, suicide ideation, theyre spooning talking about difficult things :(, theyre trying but canon typical not the easiest or healthiest, vague discussion of past and present sexual relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24810565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: 'This is so selfish,’ Tim is murmuring, breath warm through the hair on the back of Jon’s neck.  It’s four AM in Bromley and it’s raining quietly. 'Being here with you.'What if they'd known before the unknowing that the archivist dying would free the rest of the assistants from the eye?
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 19
Kudos: 119





	Two Selfish Martyrs

**Author's Note:**

> okay i love these two and they have nothing but love and care for each other, but they have their canon-typical issues :/ so this is an exploration of a relationship that is trying its best but maybe not the best. so its a bit heavier than some of my other stuff. heres more of a full list of potential cws: 
> 
> Suicide ideation (canon-typical from Tim)  
> Discussions of suicide (Jon’s)  
> And murder (Jon’s)  
> Tim’s depression  
> Danny is discussed  
> References to scars (both of them, worms, and Jon’s from daisy specifically)  
> References to weapons (eg. knives, guns) - in passing/imagery, not in scene  
> Jon typical paranoia, anxiety, suspicion in the pov. Imagined threat but it doesn't manifest and there is no actual physical violence past or present  
> References to the fact they dont have the most healthy relationship ever (canon typical trust issues, past arguing/shouting and implied past angry sex for want of a better word)
> 
> But ! the positive is they do their best to look after each other. they have a reasonably healthy or at least caring relationship now that includes a negotiated and considerate sexual element. 
> 
> and now our feature presentation....

'This is so selfish,’ Tim is murmuring, breath warm through the hair on the back of Jon’s neck. 

It’s four AM in Bromley and it’s raining quietly.

‘I am?’ Jon asks the dark and empty air in front of him. They don’t turn around anymore, when they know the answers to things like this. 

‘No. Of me.’ Tim says, ‘Being with you,’ his hands slide up to his elbows, arms winching closer. Comfortable. Tight. His forearms are flat and hard against Jon’s chest. ‘Keeping you here with me.’ 

He says it maybe covetous, like he’s holding something special. But what he means is he’s hoarding. Keeping Jon in his chest is keeping the secret there, of what they’d heard, quite accidentally, and the conversation and the kiss that had followed. He’s holding something he ought to let go of. 

_ Released.  _ The tape had said.  _ A chance.  _ A little light from the top of the cabin of the drifting, stuffy arc. A tiny window, cracked open for the blinking captives, by Jon if he would only leave. Let them chuck him up to the rafters without an olive branch or a lifejacket. He doesn’t like being valuable like this. 

A knuckle comes to sit gently under his chin. It was sweet once, and joking when it nudged his eyes up, mouth up. Playful defiance or gentle reassurance in it, whichever was the antidote. ‘ _ Hey _ ,’ Tim would say, looking into his eyes before he kissed him. Now the way it exposes the arch of his throat is unwelcome. 

Jon shrugs it off. ‘Instead of throwing me to the wolves you mean?’ 

Tim’s rejected hand brushes his chest as it slinks back down. His nails are a bit too long and neglected at the moment. ‘I don't want that,’ he says as he claps his fingers back round his arm. 

His voice is much lower than it used to be when it would shout blistering resentments, barely there above the rain on the window. They have largely gotten over the shouting. But Tim still stays away from work as much as he can. He might not want to watch the hounds’ teeth tearing but Jon knows he wants out. Maybe the fox is the essential sacrifice. From where Jon’s sitting, or lying, rucked and loosened sheets pushing patterns into his legs, Tim’s still wearing the red wool of the hunting party. 

‘Hm,’ is all he offers of these thoughts. Fight or flight bubbles away under the fast-fading peace of the sleep they’ve been in and out of since the pale afterglow. He might be overreacting. Paranoia is still a twitching habit he has to consciously Not Do.

‘I don’t,’ Tim frowns. ‘I just mean… I don’t like sitting on the secret.’ 

The secret being the piteous thing in his arms. The simplicity of  _ it’s his fault  _ that they’ve all made complex and danced around so that Jon can be here, alive, captive and safe in Tim’s bed. The secret being  _ it really is all his fault.  _

‘What are you going to do?’ Jon breathes, trying to keep the emotion from it. 

Tim is good to ask these things because he has always been honest. He doesn’t shirk things out of fear that he’s not being nice. It used to come out nice every time anyway. Less nice now, but he’s still honest to his credit. 

‘I don’t know,’ he says, and then his hand moves and they both shift to watch it. 

Tim’s fingers gingerly move to tiptoe up a loose string of hair that’s falling on Jon’s curdled shoulder. He’s gentle, snaking it between them. But he could tug if he wanted. He has before, with a sigh, and the sting had been sweet then. Now it would hurt if he pulled it tight. He could yank Jon’s neck back over the pike of his shoulder and hold it there. Could rip the follicles out if he tried.

‘Are you thinking about…’ Jon starts. He clears his throat, aware of all its telltale movements. ‘Are you going to-’

Tim sighs and shifts. ‘No, but- But I’m thinking.’ A cold tide of air swells in the space between his front and Jon’s back, chilling up two sets of Tim’s pyjamas. ‘Honestly, Jon,’ he sighs again with his new deadpan honesty. ‘I think you should probably do it yourself.’ 

‘Oh,’ Jon says. ‘Right.’ 

He tries not to spiral into suspecting conspiracy, tries not to squirm and worry that Tim’s warm arms could be holding him just to tide the others over, or deliver him to a waiting knife. But honestly, that thought might be extreme enough to be better than the idea that this is all Tim’s genuine answer to his genuine question. 

It’s a point. It’s a valid point. He stubbornly does  _ not _ engage with the oblivion it suggests. Not thinking about it. It is cold outside the bed and the toe that’s poking out is going rigid with it, hanging off the precipice. It’s a different feeling, thinking about it whilst still. The closest brushes he’s had with it have all been so sudden, active, loud. If he thinks about it now he’ll spiral. Start thinking about his blood, heartbeat, breathing. 

But it needs to happen, apparently. For the rest of them. It’s what he  _ should  _ do. And that makes it heavier than every panicked time at a door, a burrowing, a burning, the edge of a blade. Responsibility weighs. If it needs to happen he could have some control. Maybe that’s something Tim thinks he deserves at least. 

‘If there isn’t another way,’ Tim continues, polite, like he’s clarifying something at a meeting. Almost like he’s sorry. Sorry, but it needs saying. 

‘Right, no, I... I understand.’ 

Tim hears whatever it is in it. Anxiety, threat, bitterness, sadness. Straight up fear. The oldest, most primal fear. Whatever it is. His voice drops into something a little more reassuring, just a little, a little more defensive too. 

‘I don't like it anymore than you do,’ he says, stroking Jon’s hair back from his jaw and over his shoulder. 

It leaves the side of his neck exposed to chill and he shucks Tim off again, irritated and vulnerable enough to snap. 

‘I’m sure you do like it just  _ slightly _ more than I do,’ he says, with a waspish laugh that feels familiar enough in his mouth to be somewhat comforting. 

He gets up with a swish of sheets. Tim’s hand slides passively off his back and hits the mattress with a dull thud as Jon heads for the bathroom. He leaves the door open. Light on. Whether out of habit, fear, or some residue of the hard-won comfort he still has taking up space in Tim’s space, he doesn’t know. 

The faucet is horribly loud, droning on, the dribble echoing on the porcelain. Cold water does nothing for Jon except make his face wetter. He watches the drops race down it in the mirror, watches Tim looking at him over his shoulder. Hears his slow, late night breathing and the patter of the rain. 

He’d been so close to done with the paranoia. And now this. One tape in one box that something in him, something he’s no idea where from, or how human it was, had itched for until he’d played it. 

And now he ought to be a dead man walking. Will be if Tim decides to spill the secret. To do the democratic thing. 

He drags the towel down his face and turns back, hovers, leaning on the doorframe. Everywhere but the bed is chilly, and his exposed arms prickle with goosebumps. On another night, in another year before all this, he would have shivered and jumped back into bed, ignoring Tim’s yelps at his ice-block feet, and curled into Tim’s chest with the quilt overtop of them.  _ ‘You’re hurting me,’  _ Tim would have whined, _ ‘bloody freezing.’  _

Now he’s hurting with something worse, and it wont be cured by Jon putting socks on. 

He looks as vulnerable and human as Jon feels. Nipples hard with chill through his faded-soft shirt, duvet wrapped around the waistband of his old Christmas pyjama bottoms. The hairs are stood up on the arm he’s leaning on. The half-shadows of raindrops trace down his face. He’s watching, thinking, eyes shining in the four AM London light. Jon sees, and tells himself to only see, the fear and hurt and sadness in them. They aren’t cruel or scheming. Maybe analytical. But dreadfully so. 

They make Jon’s mouth dry out so he swills cold water round, gargles it and ignores the fact he can still see them. Feel them watching him. Is that human? It doesn’t feel it, but confirmation bias and anxiety and feelings make a mess of whatever he’s using to define ‘human’ and measure himself against. He used to always feel when Tim was watching him. On slow Friday afternoons across a book. Never minded it then. 

He squirts a blob of Tim’s toothpaste onto his finger, daubs and drags it over his cold teeth, thinking. Tim’s watch is on the side of the sink, ticking. It’s not a particularly nice one, but Jon could pick it out of a box as his. It was his brother’s, he’s learned more recently. Not from Tim, of course, so he hasn’t said anything. He’d just known. Martin says there’s a bunch of Danny’s stuff scattered about the flat but Jon is trying very hard not to look. 

He spits out toothpaste, and has nothing else to fill the time with. So he hovers in the bathroom door and hopes the way he’s backlit helps to cover his worrying face. 

He could just ask. If he asked at least he’d have some power. Tim is stronger than he is physically, but he still has  _ that _ at his disposal. Is it better than a grovelling appeal to his humanity? Maybe for his pride it is. But they’ve agreed, he doesn’t do that anymore. Not to Tim or he sleeps on the sofa.

After a moment too long in the doorway he asks. But he’s very careful with it. ‘Are you going to tell them?’ 

Careful enough, it seems. Tim sits up, hugs one knee to his chest. But he doesn’t answer. ‘Are you?’

‘Melanie will kill me,’ Jon says in answer, ‘even if you d-‘ he stops, shakes his head free of it but the thought is in the air now and Tim is looking at him, frowning with something more like offence than confusion. He clears his throat. ‘Daisy might.’ 

Tim pulls his bottom lip under his teeth for a second, but seemingly decides to let it go, instead considering the possibility of Daisy. It’s better if they just be methodical about this. 

His eyes go to the scar, the thin white one across the middle of Jon’s neck. Can they be methodical? Purely? With each other’s bodies? Tim had raised his eyebrows at it when he’d first caught it, still clotted black and bumpy as they’d piled in to confront their boss. Something confused, maybe intrigued, or bordering on smug in his eyes as he’d watched Martin dabbing at it with leaking wet cotton-wool. No, not smug, Jon reminds himself. That isn’t fair. Tim’s touched it since. Kissed it since as he has with all of them. 

‘Yeah,’ Tim allows, ‘they might.’ 

‘Not that I’d blame them,’ Jon sighs, ‘just, I obviously…’ His hand drops limply to his side. Obviously. 

‘Yeah,’ Tim says. Well obviously. 

Jon half laughs, bitter and dry, and the ridiculous of it all. ‘Now I’m being selfish, aren’t I?’ he shakes his head again, scrunches his eyes under the heels of his hands till there’s a muddy kaleidoscope there instead of Tim’s face. ‘Maybe I should just be the martyr. That’s what you think?’ 

He knows Tim has been ready for it for a while. He's furious and grieving and he doesn’t know why he still clings to Jon in the peeling remnants of anger and the loss that's underneath. He says so into the pillows when they’re done kissing and silently thinking out loud. 

Now he says nothing. Lets go of his leg and flops his head back onto the pillow. Looks at the popcorn ceiling. The shadow of the window frame cuts across his face, putting half of it in shadow. The half that isn’t is frowning, empty. Maybe he does think so. 

That’s what he wants for himself. To go out right if he’s going out. The tiredness, the way everything about his sagging, dead-weight body says  _ finished  _ is awful enough to . Enough to make Jon want to say something, anything, that might be half good enough to get him to not give up just yet. Not on either of them. 

‘There might be another way,’ is his weak attempt. 

Tim turns to look sideways at him. Both eyes in the opposite of a mask now, just slightly soften. Probably not because he thinks so. But he maybe sees the effort. He likes effort. He’s so used to try-harding all the time. Used to like it when Jon would talk to him unprompted, fold a corner of his book down when he read something Tim would like. 

He doesn’t smile but he’ll allow it. ‘I suppose there might be.’ 

‘And what if…,’ Jon hesitates, takes a small step towards the bed. ‘I mean I can’t do it now can I? Before the ritual, I mean. You can’t do it without me.’ 

Tim shrugs his head. ‘Not if Elias is to be believed no.’ 

Jon stalls, takes that as underhanded and tries to cover it. ‘Well, obviously I don't... trust him, I’m not stupid. But. You’ll need me.’ He tries to sell it with conviction. ‘To... see.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Tim agrees. He doesn’t look like he’s happy about the idea, but he’s agreeing. ‘Yeah I think we will.’ 

‘And I mean, we're trying to do something good,’ Jon steps forward again, landing his food with weight and trying to believe it. He does believe it. Still. ‘We… I know you don't all want to, you don't want to but. We should work together. For, you know...’

Tim raises an eyebrow, but he looks more amused than skeptical now. Or Jon’s calmed down enough to see that in his face again. ‘To save the world?’ he asks. 

‘Well,’ Jon says, sighs. ‘Yes.’

Tim finally smiles. Just a small one but every one of his smiles has never been anything but beautiful. ‘Can’t really argue with that,’ 

‘And then what if-’ Jon goes on, aware he's getting more desperate as he shuffles closer, ‘what if Martin’s plan works and Elias is out of the institute. Maybe then we can leave  _ then _ , or, or we can find some other way of destroying the contracts, or destroying  _ him _ .’ 

He’s standing now at the mattress edge, shins against the deadly little corner of the slats where wood meets cotton. He’s knocked his leg on that so many times swinging, jumping, getting pushed easily over it. He bobs against it a bit now, all nervous energy, pushes the line of the wood into his skin. 

Tim sighs up at him, takes Jon’s hand where it’s limp at his eye level. ‘I’d much rather he were dead than you,’ he says, a muted version of his playful shade of comforting. 

He’s not joked around since before they played the tape. But actually the seriousness in this is more than welcome. 

‘Really?’ Jon checks, waving both their hands side to side from his wrist like a twitching windscreen-wiper.

Tim hauls him back into his arms, inhales the scruff of his neck and sighs. ‘Don’t be daft.’ 

Jon doesn’t chance a look over his shoulder, just pulls his hand, tangled in Tim’s hand, into his chest. ‘Is that daft?’ he asks. It’s not that long ago that they were discussing whether or not he ought to be dead. 

‘I won't do it.’ Tim says, and it might be a defence but it might be a promise. ‘I’m angry, you know I am. And I want what’s best I mean- if that’s what we have to- But I’m not a murderer.’ There’s the hint of a smile in that, even as he sounds resounded. ‘Thought we’d put that one to bed,’ he quips gently, and Jon hums. 

Somehow the old arguments are relaxing now. At least they can talk about those without the threat of mortality seeping into the mattress. 

Tim presses his lips to the bit of shoulder he can reach. Doesn’t kiss, just breathes through his teeth, drying out the skin of his lips. 

‘I’m still…. selfish. I guess.’ He sighs, half a laugh. ‘I won't do it.’ 

The promise sounds genuine, tinged bitter as it is. Tim stretches his fingers in their hold, turns their hands over, brings them forward to look at them. Jon looks at the crook of his elbow instead, eyes half open, trying to think about the promise and quell his paranoia. He doesn’t need to look. He knows what it looks like. 

Their hands have always looked good together. They had agreed on that - looking at them in dark corners of the stacks, in Tim’s kitchen or Jon’s living room, in the bright of the underground station when one of their Oyster cards would bounce, leaving them laughing from the opposite sites of the barriers. They’ve changed a lot, since then. Scars don’t do a lot for the aesthetic. But they do match. 

He won’t do it, Tim’s said. His hands won’t be the instrument, not on their own or round... what? A knife? A gun? The paranoid, maybe instinctive fight or flight corner of Jon’s head is scream-whispering  _ could he though? Could he though? Could he do it?  _ Tim’s thumb is tracing over Jon’s wrist and there’s a little bloom of hurt that makes his eyes snap to it. Suspecting instantly, knowing it’s finally the too-hard push he’s been fearing. Expecting.  _ Maybe he could do it.  _

But the slight bruising that hurts under Tim’s thumb isn’t from Tim’s hands holding him here, of course it isn’t. It’s from his own sucking mouth to keep from whining past midnight as Tim was holding him, stroking him through shakes into calm. 

Tim is good at that, generous. ‘ _ I know you don’t much _ ,’ he’d said, ‘ _ and we don’t have to, but if you want I can give you a hand _ .’ He’d passed over a book Jon was borrowing from him without his normal wink, very serious. ‘ _ Make you feel good. I’d like to. If that’s something you’re up for.’  _

He does, when they do. Which was never often, less now, but when they do... He deserves better than he’s had; from Jon, from the world. The little teeth shaped indentations in the heel of Jon’s thumb, the notches Tim’s tracing now, are the only thing stopping him from hearing it. It’s too late now and far too intimate. They both try hard to keep from saying it in bed.

Tim doesn’t leave bruises, not anymore. He used to: little round ones up Jon’s neck that had him groaning and wearing a turtleneck to work. Which of course Tim saw as a challenge. Once or twice Jon’s hips, when they were in the thick of it, Jon’s fingernails biting into his shoulder in turn. But now he’s purposefully gentle. Almost too gentle. Holds himself back from gripping or squeezing. A promise not to take it out in bed. 

The sheets are a neutral zone. Saying sorry hurts more. The venomous hateful couple of times had hurt more. The praise Tim has always appreciated is soured now. So it’s neutral. Just sensation and the loyal memory of what had been love. Something close and very like love. Tim’s still angry but he doesn’t say it and he doesn’t leave marks. 

He strokes the bruise, but he says nothing. Which is kinder now than the mocking he would have gone for back then if he’d caught it.  _ ‘Enjoying yourself, were you?’  _ He would have said, eyes flashing warm, knowing Jon and Jon-and-sex well enough to get away with it. Not patronising. Not trying to prove anything. He’d have kissed Jon’s hand when it shoved his teasing grin away. 

‘I want you to be happy,’ Jon tells him quietly. ‘And Martin. And the others.’

Tim pulls their hands back into Jon’s shoulder, rests his nose on their knuckles so that when he breathes out slowly the air ruffles through the hair there. 

‘What are we going to do?’ he asks, about the ritual, their lives, the remains of their love. He doesn’t sound optimistic, not that he ever does anymore. But his insistence that ‘we can’t do nothing’ is a bit less welcome when it involves... well. It’s  _ what are we going to do about you?  _ Isn’t it? 

Jon rolls over to face him and Tim slings an arm around him out of muscle memory, shuffles into his chest out of... something else. Jon tucks Tim’s head under his chin and that, at least, makes him feel a little better. 

‘We do nothing for now,’ he says. He rubs his thumb over their knuckles, soothing over the fact everything he’s explaining is a huge  _ if.  _ ‘When the ritual is dealt with and all those monsters are down… then we can see what happens with Elias and the others and we’ll know if we… if I need- need to.’ 

It’s half a promise, still a bit like pleading in the dock. Tim sighs. ‘What if we fail?’ 

‘Then I suppose the question is rather answered for us.’ 

Tim huffs a tiny laugh, the breath skating down against Jon’s collarbone. It’s too small a laugh really, he still sounds like there’s nothing to be done. It’s never suited his voice, this deadpan empty pessimism, and it’s awful now. Jon considers shuffling down and trying to kiss some life back into him. 

Earlier it had been all emotion. Him: guilty, terrified, face wet like a dam bursting and needing someone to cling to as he finally crumbled. Tim: torn between hope and horror and human sympathy, holding tight even as he’d caught up and realised the man he was desperately kissing and wiping tears off of was more than just dead on his feet but a dead man walking. That had felt alive, albeit terrible. Felt something. Jon still wants Tim to feel something. 

But he can’t satisfy whatever it is that has hairline cracked deep into their trust with one kiss.

He worries his chin against Tim’s hair, dry now but dried a bit greasy from sweat, pushes an arm over Tim’s shoulder. He does trust him. Or he did, and that still counts for something in the present. Stroking the back of Tim’s head with one finger is more to soothe himself than anything. There is not nothing here. There is still trust. 

‘If nothing changes,’ he starts, then swallows. It is a very strange thing to go from scared someone would kill you to trusting them with the same power in an evening. ‘If I couldn’t do it myself, could you?’

Tim’s arm curls in round the small of Jon’s back, pulls them closer together so he has to strain his neck to look up at the underside of Jon’s chin. 

‘Are you asking me to?’

‘I’m asking if you could.’

Tim sighs and thinks loudly for a good few moments. The watch in the bathroom is ticking faintly. A car goes past the window, tungsten glow from the headlights sweeping across the ceiling. 

‘Yeah,’ Tim says quietly into the hollow of Jon’s throat, ‘probably.’ His breath is hot but unthreatening. ‘I think most people could,’ he goes on. ‘In our situation, or any unthinkable situation, you know.’ 

Jon hums assent. It’s not lovely to hear but Tim’s right, really. He’s the villain here at worst, or at least the hostage slowing them down. Cracked leg. Irreparable, probably. If his fellow monsters are to be believed. If someone has to put him down he’d rather it was Tim in the stable than anyone else on the track. 

‘Right.’ 

‘I don't want to,’ Tim clarifies

‘Because I should do it myself?’

‘Well, yes,’ Tim says, ‘but... Also-’ he exhales a kiss against the scar Daisy made. ‘Want you here.’

It’s not  _ I love you. _ It’s not even  _ I like you _ . It’s none of the things they used to say.

Want. Selfish. You. Not specific. Here. Closeness.

He wants the bubble. Affirmation. Jon knows this now, now that they’re talking a bit again. He knows why Tim wants the circus destroyed. Knows that really, all he wants is the comfort Jon didn't give him before when he needed it and loads him with now to make up for it. Comfort, for him, is anything other than freezing. It’s why he likes giving. Why he’ll kiss Jon’s cursed voicebox even whilst he’s being held. 

He sounds so honest, he’s always honest, so Jon uncurls his arms. Shuffles down and lets Tim pull him into  _ his _ chest this time. Close like this, cheek against the old bobbling fabric of his thin shirt, Jon can hear Tim’s pulse, slow against his ear. His head goes up and down slowly with each swell of Tim’s lungs. He’s still alive, still here.  _ Want you here.  _

Jon’s hand reaches round his back blindly, slots itself between Tim’s fingers easily and pulls it back between them. Tim sighs, tension falling out of his tired body. He’s not a killer; his hand is soft. He’s not a hunter, anyway, not malicious. Revenge isn’t malicious. He’s just tired. 

Maybe he used to curl up with Danny like this. Under a quilt giggling and hiding from parents. Maybe they snuggled down in a pillow fort like this and napped carefree. Maybe their roles were reversed - maybe Danny held Tim like he’s holding Jon now. 

He doesn’t have Danny anymore and Jon knows, in the way he shouldn’t know, how much that scares him. Jon has tasted his fear when he’d frozen, has seen what he saw on that stage. But there was fear in the rest of the story too. In Tim’s anger, guilt, detestation. Terrified of having to feel it. Terrified of living without his brother. 

He needs someone. A body. Something to hold that will stop him breaking apart for an hour each hour they stay. Someone to reassure him. 

He was missing it before. Missing it too now really. But Jon supposes he’s the closest thing Tim has. So he will have to do. 

He curls in tighter and presses a kiss wherever his mouth is laying. It takes like cotton and emanates warmth. 

‘You want  _ someone _ here.’ 

Not really a question.

‘Yeah,’ Tim admits, to the window, over Jon’s head. 

‘Selfish of you,’ Jon murmurs without any sharpness. 

His hair ruffles from a snorted laugh turned sigh. ‘Yeah. That’s me.’

**Author's Note:**

> well. i cried writing it if it makes you feel any better. and also im sorry. 
> 
> please leave a comment tell me how much you hate it / love it but i know you hate it xox
> 
> I'm currently taking ficlet comm*ssi*ns to r*ise m*ney for The Bail Project and other BLM charities (ao3 doesn't like you taking m*oney on here hence the *) but head over to my tumblr if you are interested ! 
> 
> @babyyodablackwood x


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